


Moral Sensibilities

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Dead Men Fics [6]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Canon Compliant, Erskine POV, First War With Mevolent, Friendship, Gen, Past Tense, Poisoning, Spoilers, Treachery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25425316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: Near the end of the war, Erskine and Saracen bunker up in a safe house waiting for the others to arrive. Erskine makes a decision. Saracen becomes very unwell.Or, the poisoning scene that was referenced in Seasons of War. Some minor spoilers.
Relationships: Erskine Ravel & Saracen Rue
Series: Dead Men Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672435
Kudos: 13





	Moral Sensibilities

Erskine stared through the frosted panes of glass and out onto the plain below. It had snowed so heavily the night before that the ground was entirely obscured, wet and white and brown. Fence posts were capped with it, tall pines dusted white, and Ravel felt a deep foreboding spread through him, starting at the centre of his ribcage. Meaty grey clouds swayed up above, obscuring the blue sky.

He and Saracen had arrived at the rendez-vous point days earlier than had been planned. That was the single positive aspect of this whole situation. The others knew about this squat cabin, and would arrive when they could. All Rue and Ravel had to do was sit tight and survive the weather; which they could do. Erskine was an elemental, after all.

Erskine turned away from the scene, shoving the curtains closed. On the bed, Rue shifted.

“Erskine?” He murmured, his voice thick from sleep. “Everything alright?”

The cabin was too small for there to be more than one bed. Erskine had volunteered to keep an eye on the weather, stay awake in case someone attempted an ambush. He hadn’t meant to wake Saracen.

“Everything’s fine, go back to sleep.”

Rue shoved his head under the pillow, and Erskine went to leave, but then he rolled again.

“Have you slept at all?” Rue was sounding much more awake.

“I’m not tired.”

“Come here,” Rue said, arms out. Ravel looked down at him, in the shadows of the night, and did not move. “You need to sleep too.”

“I’m fine.”

“I haven’t had a cuddle in a week,” Saracen whined. “And ‘s cold. Come on.”

Ravel fidgeted, but then he shook off his jacket and shoes and carefully got into the bed. He let Saracen hug him without complaint, but his eyes remained wide open. Saracen moved his head back so their eyes could meet.

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. We’ll be a little late getting back to camp, that’s all. Dex and Larrikin and Skulduggery will be here soon.”

Erskine’s frown smoothed away, he yawned. “Do you _know_ this?”

Saracen hesitated. “I’m not telling you my powers.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Kind of is, though. No, I don’t know this, but I know our friends. They’re not going to let a little snow storm get in their way for long.”

If Erskine had a little less dignity he would pull Saracen closer, take refuge in his friend’s presence. If Saracen were Hopeless, Erskine would do it anyway. Rue did it for him, tightening the embrace. Erskine’s eyes closed, and he wondered hazily if Saracen was a mind-reader, after all.

That next morning the snow hadn’t abated, or melted away. Indeed, it was now so thick that it was difficult to get out the front door. Erskine occupied himself with patching the holes in the roof that let in freezing, dripping water, and Saracen cooked up some oats with dried fruit in the old cookpot that came with the cabin.

Erskine didn’t like waiting. He didn’t like solitude. Even with Rue here the cabin felt empty, and so there was nothing to distract him from his darting thoughts, his perpetual fears. He tried to busy himself by lighting fires and examining their resources. Rue helped, tense also. Erskine caught the man watching him out of the corner of his eye, and suspicion settled slowly in the corners of his mind.

“Is Corrival secretly a drunkard?” Saracen asked, examining the old bottles of whisky in his hands. There was a surprising amount of alcohol, and not simply the sort one used to disinfect wounds. Erskine didn’t look at his friend, too focused on checking their dry stock for weevils. He had been caught out before when he had thought ruined stock was edible, and that had been a very hungry week. Thankfully, the foodstuff seemed to be spelled against rot and pests.

“I’ve never seen him drink in his life,” Erskine said. “Maybe he let someone stay here before us?”

Saracen was cracking open the newest of these bottles and sniffed the offending liquid. His eyebrows rose.

“Please tell me that you aren’t going to start drinking that.” Erskine said, resigned.

“I’m going to give it a try, that’s all,” Saracen said.

“It’s too early in the afternoon surely, even for you.”

“Pfft,” Saracen said, and he grabbed the closest glass from the cupboards.

“God knows how old it is; you’ll go blind,” Erskine said, without looking away from the food. There were enough ingredients to make bread. Larrikin had taught him how to make it properly, so that it rose well and came out of the oven soft and fluffy. It had been a recipe of Larrikin’s mother’s, from centuries ago.

“Nah,” Saracen said. There was a sound of pouring liquid, and a pause. “Woah, that’s actually really good. Try some!”

“No thank you.”

“Does it go against your moral sensibilities?”

“It goes against my common sense.” Erskine said. “I’m not letting the Diablerie capture me again, because I decided to drink in enemy territory.”

“I always forget how dramatic you are,” Saracen said, sounding somewhat awed.

“You’ve known me for two centuries. I’m hurt, Saracen, that you don’t know my character after all this time.”

“I know more about you than you realise,” Saracen said, with a tap to his nose.

Erskine’s stomach lurched. He didn’t move. Saracen walked out of the kitchen, clutching his glass and the whisky. When Saracen was properly gone, Erskine’s hand went to the inside pocket on his jacket. He could feel the thick folded parchment under the fabric. Reassured that the object was still secure, he went back to his task, but a cold sheen had settled over the contents of his thoughts. Wishing Hopeless was there, and not comatose in the makeshift hospital in Berlin, Erskine brushed cobwebs out of his hair and grabbed himself a glass too.

Night came swiftly. The day had been long, they had done little of worth, and had drunk, and now that the sky was specked with stars, Erskine came to an alcohol-aided decision. Saracen sat, giggling, in the sitting room. Erskine took their empty glasses to the kitchen, to be refilled.

Ravel’s hands shook just a little when he found a slender bottle in his travel bag. He opened it with great care, and let a single drop of amber liquid fall into one of the glasses, before he resealed it and stowed it away. He poured in the whisky, and swirled the glasses, before stumbling back to his friend.

“Thanks,” Saracen said, hand already outstretched. Erskine paused, for a solitary moment, and gave it to him.

Waking was a painful experience. Erskine squinted and groaned, conscious only of having drunk excessively the night before. Above him, on the bed – why was Erskine on the floor – Saracen squeaked. Erskine’s eyes widened, and he pushed himself to his feet, swaying as he did so.

Saracen had his arms wrapped around his abdomen, face taut, eyes screwed shut. The blankets around him were bunched and messy; he must have slept fitfully. Erskine felt his own stomach roll; from nausea or, perhaps, something else.

“I don’t feel that good,” Saracen muttered, eyes cracked open. “I’m sick.”

“You drank so much I’m surprised you’re still alive,” Erskine said dismissively, then pulled a face. His head was aching.

“Not tha’,” Saracen said quietly, groaning and curling up tighter on the bed.

“I’ll get you some food.”

“No’ hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

Erskine stumbled out into the kitchen, to cook up some porridge and make tea. He lit the stove with a click of his fingers, and for good measure reignited the fire in the grate. He grabbed the old black kettle and drew water from the air into the container, then placed it on the hotplate. Saracen didn’t emerge even after Erskine had prepared everything, so he brought it into the bedroom, balancing the bowls in his arms carefully. Rue grumbled and burrowed further into the bed, until Erskine offered him the tea, which made him sit up gingerly with a forced smile.

“Thanks,” Saracen said quietly, and he ate carefully but hungrily. Erskine perched on the windowsill and ate too, ignoring the chair. When they finished, Erskine went to take the crockery, but Saracen grabbed Erskine’s hand instead.

“There’s something wrong,” he said quietly. “I feel sick.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No,” Saracen said firmly. “This isn’t from alcohol. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not that. I feel _ill._ ”

“All right,” Erskine said. “Whatever you say.”

Saracen swore at him and rolled to face the other direction.

Erskine acknowledged something was wrong when Saracen wasn’t feeling any better by that evening. Indeed, he was feeling worse. The extra dose in Saracen’s lunch couldn’t have helped; Erskine had dropped it in after he had boiled up the stew. He was trying not to think about what he was doing. If Saracen were a mind-reader, he would pick it up, and then where would Erskine be? Saracen did not hesitate before taking the bowl from Erskine.

The weather mellowed as the days went on. Saracen weakened further. Out in the field, clearing the snow from the road, Erskine bent over his shovel and closed his eyes, putting his thoughts in order. This was the third day. Erskine frowned, and went back to shovelling. Soon enough, he went back inside, to his friend.

“I think I’m dying,” Saracen said to Erskine, grasping his wrist. Erskine frowned, sat on the bed beside his friend. Rue’s hair was flat with sweat, his cheeks thin, his eyes bloodshot. He was still pretty coherent, though. Ravel took a damp cloth from the side of the bed and put it gently on Rue’s forehead.

"Larrikin will be here soon,” Ravel reassured him. “He’ll heal you up.”

“You know he won’t be here in time,” Saracen said, with a cough.

“Course he will,” Erskine said.

“ _Don’t_.” Saracen said. “Don’t ignore this. We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“You. Me. This war.”

Erskine squeezed Saracen’s hand as he curled into a coughing fit, the sound tearing out of his throat.

“Alright,” Erskine said, a tinge of anxiety in his words. “I’ll humour you. What about me, you and the war do you want to discuss?”

“When I die … no, look at me. Alright, _if_ I die,” he did look pale. “You _can’t_ let Hopeless visit this cottage. Don’t let them too close … I don’t want …”

Erskine started, before something cold came onto his face. “Are you angry with them?”

“No,” Saracen coughed. “It’s their … you don’t know? It’s their power, and _no_ I’m not telling you what it is … Their power has side effects, and them coming here, or being too close to my body, that would … be really, really bad.”

“I can do that,” Erskine said. “But surely that’s not what was worrying you?”

“No.” Saracen admitted. “Erskine, are you alright?”

“What do you mean? I should be the one worried, right now, not you. I’m not the one ill.”

“You’ve been distant for a while,” Saracen said solemnly, and coughed again.

“Well,” Erskine said quietly. “I’ve felt distant, I suppose. That year …”

That year alone, he meant. That year of torture and imprisonment and abandonment. When you all left me for dead, and strangers saved my life. That year, do you even remember it?

Saracen nodded, and then his face contorted and he curled into himself, incapable of further conversation. After some time, Erskine left him.

When Hopeless and Erskine met that first time, Erskine had been deep undercover. It had been before the war officially started. Erskine had been working as a spy, and for this particular mission Meritorious had sent him to work in the household of a family of Faceless worshippers. He was under a false name, and served as the tutor to the young daughter of the household. The family was rich nobility. The daughter was, therefore, expected to marry young, and marry well. The future husband was already chosen – he was an older sorcerer, with a line of dead wives behind him. The match suited the parents perfectly. They were rid of someone they considered a disappointing daughter, and had more status and money as a result. It hadn’t, however, suited Hopeless.

The two took a while to be honest to each other, with Ravel cracking first. He threw over his mission in order to help Hopeless, and then Hopeless helped them – all of them, the anti-Faceless movement. For some time, they both were the only true friend in each other’s life.

Now, Erskine knew that he could never open up to Hopeless again, after this, and nobody else either. This wasn’t something one could talk about, or explain away. This moment now – or had the moment passed already – this moment now was where Erskine made a decision. Mist, or the Dead Men? Principles, or honour?

Erskine had planned to sleep on the floor again, but Saracen cajoled him into the bed. Refusing would seem suspicious, so Ravel obeyed. They curled up together, and something stirred into Erskine’s stomach that he had long been ignoring. It was guilt, visceral and unforgiving. The snow pattered on the roof above.

When Erskine slept, it was sudden. His dream was colourless. He saw a slender figure walking through dancing shadows that solidified into spears. He saw Saracen standing in a dungeon, hand on his wounded neck, eyes fearful. He dreamt of Mist and Ghastly, and it all blurred together. He dreamt himself walking down a corridor with walls made from ice, and looking ahead, he saw his own reflection, warped and sinister.

And then Erskine woke. It didn’t take a sensitive to understand what the dream was hinting at. Erskine looked down at Saracen, curled into his chest, and got out of the bed.

“Erskine?” Saracen muttered.

“I’m just getting breakfast,” Erskine said. It felt like his heart was in his throat, a lump of meat obstructing his airway.

“Good,” Saracen said, eyes opening like a cat’s. “Good slave.”

Erskine should have rebutted that statement. Instead he went off to the kitchen, and after several long hesitations he came back with porridge with dried berries on the top. They had no milk, but Erskine had made tea anyway. Saracen couldn’t sit up properly to eat it, so Erskine helped him.

Rue looked even worse with the morning. Erskine didn’t look at him, and tried to leave, but Rue grabbed his wrist. Saracen’s hand was sweaty.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Oh really?” Erskine sat on the side of the bed. “Do tell.”

“It’s about my discipline.”

Erskine blinked slowly. “I’m not falling for that one.”

Saracen stared. “What do you mean?”

“You want me to ask you, _Saracen please what is your discipline_ so you can go _I told you Ravel, I just know things_. Well, I’m not falling for it.”

“I can see through layers.”

“What? That's your power?"

“Yeah.”

“That’s, that’s really underwhelming,” Erskine said. “Why on earth would you hide it? I’m disappointed you couldn’t travel through time or do something actually _interesting_.”

“Look, if I tell people – and I did when I was young – they will assume I’m a, well, a pervert.”

Erskine frowned. “Well then. Why else would you choose that power?”

“I wanted to look through rocks, see the different layers of sediment,” Saracen said miserably. “I was a right swot when I was a youth. Honestly, it’s more embarrassing than actually being a pervert – which I’m not, so you know. I chose a discipline which literally had no use to the war, or even life, at the time.”

Erskine patted Saracen on the shoulder, and then started laughing.

“Shut up,” Saracen said.

“No,” Erskine managed, still giggling. “I’m going to go and clear the snow off the road. Oh my, Saracen, you’re hilarious.”

“You’re a cruel man to a friend in a time of need,” Saracen said, then coughed.

Erskine walked out the door, and when his back was to Rue his smile disappeared. He went out to shovel snow. He made lunch. By the afternoon Saracen had some blood in his cheeks, and could sit up, a little.

By the time the others arrived, Saracen could walk short distances. By the time they all left – thanks to Larrikin’s handiwork – Saracen was back to normal.

Erskine crushed the vials of poison and antidote and shovelled snow over the shards before they all arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> I changed some minor aspects of canon in this fic. This also might be the only fic where I let Saracen actually have x-ray powers.


End file.
